


Philosophic Progression

by geekmama



Series: Honorable Intentions [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6517213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The grit on the lens. The fly in the ointment'... When had that changed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Philosophic Progression

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Years" prompt, a little Sunday morning smut. Any errors are my own.
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Sherlock woke first on that rainy Sunday morning, but did not open his eyes, using his other senses to absorb the scene. Contrasting with the cool morning air was a feeling of delicious warmth: the warmth of bed and bedclothes (old sheets worn to silken softness, rivaling the expensive Egyptian cotton ones on his bed in Baker Street; the comfortable weight of blankets and an ancient quilt, pulled close around them, up to their eyes); and above all, the warmth of being curled around a sweet-scented Molly. 

She was still deeply asleep, and justly so. He allowed himself to recall the previous night in some detail: Plying her with liquor (Grand Marnier, which had the advantage of imparting an intriguing taste of orange to their kisses); unhurriedly, almost teasingly seducing her; then taking her apart bit by bit -- the sounds she made when in the throes of passion where becoming shockingly necessary to him; and then the denouement, the intensity of which had rendered them both trembling, boneless.

My God, it was addictive. And he was getting _very_ good at it.

_The grit on the lens. The fly in the ointment._

He’d said that -- and believed it -- not so many years before.

When had that changed?

After his Fall, perhaps? A great deal had happened during those two years, of course. But no, it had begun before that. Perhaps after he’d met John. John Watson. A truly wise man.

 _Caring is not an advantage._ He could hear his brother’s supercilious tones so very clearly.

Well, perhaps it wasn’t. But, ultimately, did one have a choice?

Molly stirred slightly within his arms.

He kissed the top of her head. “Good morning, Miss Hooper.”

His left hand was found, drawn up to her lips for a lingering kiss.

_Addictive._

But then she murmured over her shoulder, “Be right back,” and squirmed away from him, out from beneath the covers.

He listened to her retreating footsteps, and the faint sounds of her in the loo. Impatience had just begun to materialize when he finally heard her returning.

He opened his eyes to the grey light at last and watched her: small, bare feet making a barely audible padding on the carpet; kitten-bedecked sleep tee neatly straightened; hair brushed, loose, eminently touchable. There was a smile on her lips as she slipped back into bed, and then into his arms.

“You’re freezing!” he objected, nonetheless drawing her close.

“I know,” she said, kissing him. “Will you accept the case, Mr. Holmes?”

“Mmmm. A nine. Possibly a ten.”

“Definitely a ten,” she assured him, her cool hand slipping beneath his vest, caressing his back, then further down. “What would John call it on the blog, do you think?”

“John?” he murmured, “We’ll have to ask him when we see him next.” He found the sensation evoked as she chuckled beneath his kiss profoundly stirring. Focus, determination, a clear goal… he had only to give himself over to deducing his subject.

 

~.~


End file.
